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The one thing about Contemplicity...was: working towards something every day, for free, in spare time, with other writers doing precisely that as well. It was neato.
I more-than-kinda miss it.
That said, some amazing stuff happening on soon.
How's life, watchcrew?
'Round MidnightSee "Changed around midnight" just rolls off the tongue
I may be the loudest but I'm not the one
Just keep looking City; your hero will come
For I'm just a space captain caught on the run
A girl with a twirl says I bought her a pearl?
She's all but forgotten in my little world
It's lightning that calls me away from the pain
"I love you" just gets washed away with the rain
Still, a garden or two and a globe would be nice
A cigar and a wife and whate'er other vice
But that's not for sale, not for me, not for keeps
There's a stir in the night as the ladyfair sleeps
A new day dawns and the sky is all changed
The space captain's gone, but it's nothing deranged
A captain is doomed both for now and for then
To change around midnight again and again
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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